


I'll Crawl Home to Her

by meverri



Series: Apocalypse Lovers [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Major Character Injury, Post-Apocalypse, post-s4, they're in love and i love them for it, this is rly just... me putting all my ladies in this fic huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 23:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21289607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meverri/pseuds/meverri
Summary: After the eye opens, they find their way home.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Series: Apocalypse Lovers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589926
Comments: 14
Kudos: 121





	I'll Crawl Home to Her

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me about podcasts at hundred-separate-lines.tumblr.com

She listens to the blood.

The world goes dark, then light again, then dark again, and all through it she wanders, searching for something- no, _someone,_ no, _two someones,_ until bones crack under her fingers, blood seeps from under her knife, and the Hunt is over.

But now that she’s had that taste, that first foul taste of blood between her lips since she was trapped, Buried, lost, she cannot escape it. She sniffs out the creature, the one that threatened her friends, her partner- _mine, can’t let it touch what’s mine_\- and lets it fill her mind. She focuses down on each track it’s left through London, out along the Thames until it turns sharply south, cuts through Shorne and Rochester. She doesn’t know where it’s heading, exactly, but it doesn’t matter in the end. Its horrible, paper-thin skin breaks under her teeth on some back road near Chatham. Its blood isn’t right, so she spits it out, drags its corpse under the trees and leaves it to rot.

The days blur together. She doesn’t know what to Hunt for now, isn’t sure where the next threat lies. She can’t go back- her memories are unclear, but she knows there’s only danger for her in London. Even her partner- _home, safe, quiet_\- is a danger now. She doesn’t remember why.

She doesn’t need food, doesn’t need rest. She passes under forests and across roads and through towns, catching the scents of those who deserve to die, those who she once would have called monsters and now calls food, and tastes their fear, her claws tight at their throats, her teeth long and sharp and powerful, and she is full. She pulls their hearts from their chests, and she is rested.

She isn’t sure when it happens, exactly. One moment, she’s chasing a scent through the woods, fresh and frightened, and the next she’s reeling as the sky opens up, raining maggots down onto the forest floor, filling her lungs and her mouth with the smell, the taste, the essence of _fear_. 

Daisy looks at the sky, and the sky looks back  


* * *

  
Basira takes aim, fires, reloads. Methodical. Calculating.

She wishes she could call Jon. She’s sure he could explain the sudden shift in the world that’s left London crawling with what she _wishes_ she could call zombies. They certainly look as though they’ve been decomposing for months, though she’s sure the one on her left looks exactly like the nice barista from the coffee shop down the street. She’d gone for a coffee only that morning, and the girl- Emily? Emilia? Something like that- had looked just as cheerful as usual.

Aim. Fire. Retreat.

She’d known, deep down, that these last few weeks had been borrowed time. Not that they had been easy, mind, but since coming to work for the institute Basira had rarely had the luxury of even a weekend to herself. Whatever had happened with Jon and Martin in the Lonely, it had weakened the Eye significantly, and for the first time in months Basira had been able to get through the day without feeling its terrible weight watching her every move.

Aim. Two shots, for the large man lumbering slowly toward her. Look for an exit.

Her contacts had been largely unhelpful in the past three weeks. No sign of Daisy anywhere, unsurprisingly, or of the other hunters, or even of the horrible creature that had emerged from the tunnels and haunted her nightmares ever since. There hadn’t been an uptick in deaths anywhere in the region, so Basira assumed that someone- likely Daisy- had taken care of the thing. As for the hunters, they could be anywhere. She only hoped they weren’t on Jon and Martin’s trail.

Of course, that was very quickly becoming the least of her concerns.

Aim. Fire. Wonder how she’s already adjusted to the apocalypse less than an hour into it.

Next steps. She considers the couple of safe houses closest to London, wonders if Daisy will be at any of them. Tries not to hope. Tries not to let herself believe that finding Daisy would be anything better than a sense of closure as she took that final shot. Tries not to let herself remember Daisy’s hand on her shoulder, that last kiss, the cut on her lip left behind by lengthening teeth, still healing. She’s reopened it nearly every day since she got it. She’s afraid to lose it, this last gift from her partner, her wife, her _Daisy_.

Aim. Fire. Reload.  


* * *

  
Daisy stumbles through the foggy remains of what must have been a small town, picking a house at random and curling up on its floor for what feels like days. She keeps Basira’s face clear in her mind as her consciousness fades in and out, desperate not to be swept up in isolation.

She’s been hungry again, these last few days. Not to Hunt, but for food, in a way she was only just starting to be before she let it retake her. She digs through the houses lining this lonely street until she’s picked them clean, squirreling away every can of food she can find in the pack she stole from another town.

She thinks she’s going north. It’s hard to tell with this new sunless sky, but the terrain looks familiar enough. She’s driven through here before, she thinks, but that would have been years ago- another Daisy, in another life. Besides, she’s trying to avoid the main roads, flooded as they are with people and monsters alike. She isn’t really sure which of those she is, anymore.

She can taste Basira’s scent on the air all the time, faint and afraid as it is. It’s funny- the apocalypse has made it so much easier for her to feel the Hunt’s power running through her, strong and unrestrained in a way it never was before, but she’s also still _her_. It’s like her fear is keeping her grounded somehow, pulling her out of the mind of a beast and back into herself every time she feels like she’s losing it. 

She doesn’t want to follow Basira’s scent, but she can’t bear the thought of Basira alone in this horrible new world, so she lets it guide her, slow and meandering though she is, back towards London. She leaves the Lonely town behind after a couple of days and wanders through a dark forest, arms stretched ahead of her to avoid the trees. On the other side of that is a long, twisting tunnel, which somehow deposits her ten miles west of where she started despite having only felt about two miles long. She has a brief encounter with a victim of the slaughter that leaves her bruised and bloody, but she manages to sink her knife deep in the woman’s back and escape, muttering apologies the whole while. It takes longer to escape the Web, navigating the twists and turns of another small town while avoiding any of the cobwebs strung across its alleys, but she manages it after a week or so, replenishing her supplies on the way.

She runs into other survivors, too, every once in a while. The kindest is an old woman named Beatrice who insists on sharing her slightly-stale box of biscuits when she sees Daisy staring at it. It’s the first hard food she’s had in weeks- lately, all she’s been able to find is soup and canned fruit- and she relishes each bite. Beatrice only gives her a sad smile and tells her not to give up hope, that there’s still kindness in the world. They travel together for three days before Beatrice turns eastward, seeking her grandchildren in Swansea. Daisy meets another old woman in another small town, but this one refuses to give a name. The woman and her son travel with Daisy for nearly a week, but in all that time they say barely two sentences to her, constantly huddling together for hushed conversations when they think Daisy’s asleep. When they part ways, Daisy hardly spares them a “goodbye.”

She reaches the outskirts of London about a month after the day the sky opened, by her reckoning. Basira’s scent is strong here, almost overpowering, and it takes all Daisy has to stop and find shelter for the night rather than running through the empty streets towards her. She finds a small apartment that’s been completely looted and barricades the door with every bit of furniture she can find before curling up on the bed, letting herself drift to sleep with the promise that Basira will be there tomorrow, that she’ll be _home_, letting Basira’s scent pull her from wakefulness.  


* * *

  
Weeks pass.

Basira never strays too far from the institute. The attacks, though severe, are few and far between, and it’s an easily defensible building. She learns every crack and crevice, every secret hiding place, barricades the entrance to the tunnels and only ventures out for food and weapons.

It’s only a couple of days before Georgie and Melanie show up. It breaks Basira’s heart to watch Melanie make her way to her old desk. She remembers Melanie’s kindness in those awful months when Daisy and Tim were dead and Jon should have been dead, when the archives were cold and lonely and she could barely get through the day without crying. She knows how much it hurts Melanie now, to be back here, so she doesn’t ask any questions, just helps them set up a bedroll in the assistants’ office and gives them space.

Georgie doesn’t bring much, but she brings a couple of microphones and some other equipment that Basira doesn’t understand until a couple of days later, when Georgie and Melanie sit down in Jon’s old office and begin to broadcast.

“To anyone out there listening,” they say, “we’re here to help.”

Within hours, four more people have shown up to the institute with little more than the clothes on their backs and whatever food they could find. The Magnus Institute becomes a safe haven for people without shelter. Basira leads expeditions into the city for food, while Melanie starts a garden on the roof with a couple who, Basira later finds out, used to live next door to her. The attacks become more frequent, but with the small community they’ve built, they also become much easier to resist.  
Then, one day, Jude Perry shows up and asks for help.

Once they’ve secured her in the watertight room that Basira now uses as a bedroom, the interview goes smoothly enough. Georgie and Basira question her for hours, asking why she would come to the institute of all places, asking why they should help her, and Jude answers every question in the same despondent monotone. She isn’t the only one, either- Annabelle Cane appears a couple of days later, and Helen shows up after that. All three of them say the same thing: the moment the apocalypse happened, their respective powers grew much stronger, but their connections to their powers grew weaker. Helen’s the one who explains it best. She tells Basira that she’s attuned so closely to the Spiral now that she can send someone into it with less than a thought, but that every other fear is crowding her out of it, pulling her in every direction until she can’t feel the old urge to feed the Spiral anymore. She says she feels more like herself than she has since that first awful encounter, and so do the others. Jude, especially, is so wracked with guilt that she defends the institute with all her newfound power, a vision as her flames rip through a horde of the slaughter’s victims. The attacks come more slowly after that, a necessary reprieve.

One day, Basira looks around at her friends, picking their way through piles of old statements to try and find a way to end this nightmare, and feels peace for the first time in weeks. _The eye of the storm,_ she thinks, and doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

Through it all, Daisy’s loss hovers over her, threatening to push her back into that melancholic place. She fights it every day, pushing down every bit of emotion until she has to go sob for ten minutes in a storage closet somewhere, or bite into her pillow and scream until she’s hoarse, or lock herself in the bathroom and just breathe. Melanie finds her that time, pulls her out of it again the way she used to, her hands running in slow circles across her back. Georgie brings them both tea and settles down beside them, wrapping one hand around Basira’s.

It doesn’t get easier, but she isn’t alone anymore. A month after the apocalypse, Basira wakes up alone and gathers her things, ready to go out on patrol. She cleans her gun, packs food and ammunition, slips a dagger into its sheath, then ties that around her belt. She passes Georgie on the way out, yawning and pressing random buttons on the coffee maker, then makes her way out onto the street.

There aren’t _sunny_ days anymore, per se, but there are lighter days, days where the air isn’t quite as filled with smoke and ash, and today is one of them. It’s warmer than she expected, and the air smells less foul than usual. Basira hoists her empty bags over her shoulder and begins to pick her way through the abandoned streets.

She makes her usual rounds, checking traps and checking on neighbors, then heads towards the next block of streets on her list to methodically sort through everything left behind in the days after the apocalypse. She finds a corner store that’s mostly untouched, all things considered, and spends about an hour at a clothing store trying to figure out what’s most essential and what she can leave until she comes back. She stops to eat after a while, her eyes glued to the door, then moves on to the next street. The day crawls by, slow but not unpleasant, until she’s dragging herself and her bags back towards the institute.

After a couple of minutes, she catches a glimpse of something moving behind her, caught in the reflection from one of the many glass storefronts around her. Basira pulls her handgun out of its holster, flicks the safety off, and keeps her finger on the trigger, speeding up and deciding on a more direct route to the institute. She catches the thing moving in her peripheral vision a few minutes later, small and fast, and begins to jog. Thunder rolls in the distance, the air buzzing, and Basira heads for open streets, away from shops and alleyways and things hidden in the shadows.

She almost makes it, too.

The thing tackles her with malice, snarling and biting. She manages to get a single shot off before it’s on her, but it squeezes at her wrist until her bones pop and break, flinging the gun away as soon as it can. It must have been human, once, Basira thinks as it wraps its claws around her throat. She scrabbles desperately with her left hand, reaching for her dagger even as the creature squeezes, leaving shallow cuts along her neck. She reaches the dagger just as dark spots begin to appear in her peripheral vision and slashes wildly at its face, at its throat, _anything_ to get it off. It recoils, and in its confusion Basira manages to roll away, scrambling to her feet and running as quickly as she can. It’s not enough, though, and the thing collides with her once more, this time pulling her to the ground so hard that her head hits the concrete with an awful crack.

Sluggish and dizzy, Basira tries desperately to crawl away, but the creature throws its weight on top of her yet again, digging its claws into her shoulder. She screams, in fear or anger or frustration, and manages to shove her elbow into its face. She’s not even halfway to her feet when the thing snarls and pulls her back down. She kicks, hard, aiming for its face but hitting its chest, and though it makes a pained noise, it pins her down again, pressing her wrists against the pavement and letting its fangs extend. It bends towards her, and Basira struggles, desperately trying to twist away from it, but she’s trapped.

Distantly, she thinks she hears her name.

It leans down.

And then, with a force and speed Basira can’t quite follow, the thing is tackled off of her. She gasps, gets up on her elbows and pulls herself away from where two creatures, horrible and violent, are now grappling in the middle of the street. She watches, frozen, as the smaller of the two gets on top of the one that just attacked her, pinning it in the same way she had been pinned a moment earlier. It slashes at its face, its chest, pulls out one of its eyes, and then, when the larger one can’t struggle any longer, sinks its teeth into its throat and _rips_.

Basira just sits there, transfixed, as the larger one twitches, blood spraying from its neck. The smaller one bites, again and again and again, like that first scent of blood had been all it needed to whip itself into a frenzy. It’s only a few seconds before the larger one stops moving, its blood dripping from the smaller one’s mouth.  
While it feeds, Basira reaches into her pack and pulls out the other small pistol she keeps for emergencies. She points it at the creature, her left hand trembling under its weight, and slowly gets to her feet. She aims for its center of mass and prays with whatever faith she has left that her aim will at least be good enough to stop it, just enough for her to run for help, to get Georgie or Jude to finish the job. She takes a hesitant step back, and then another.

Before she can retreat fully, though, the creature looks up at her, and she is frozen once more.

Its eyes are dark, full of bloodlust, but the instant they meet Basira’s they soften. Then the rest of it begins to soften, too, its claws and fangs receding, its form melting back into the shape of a small woman, her dark hair hanging over her eyes, covered in scars and bruises and scabs, and achingly familiar.

“Basira?” she asks, shakily.

“Daisy,” Basira breathes.

Daisy looks down at the creature, at the pool of blood, and back up to where Basira is standing, her gun pointed directly at Daisy’s heart. She smiles.

“Basira,” she says, and collapses.  


* * *

  
It takes a while to return to consciousness.

Daisy feels the cold metal bite of handcuffs, first, keeping her wrists securely attached to something metal- a radiator?- and binding her ankles together. She groans, her head spinning, and fights to open her eyes.

It takes some doing, but when she does, she instantly recognizes her surroundings. She’s in the safe room in the middle of the archives, the one where she used to find Jon curled up on the cot, listening to the tapes Martin had left for them on repeat, as though he couldn’t bear to forget the sound of Martin’s voice. 

Basira’s sitting on the cot now, her wrist in some sort of improvised sling, looking a lot less disheveled than she had when Daisy had passed out. Someone’s bandaged her neck, too, but there’s a dot of red on the left, just below her chin, and Daisy can _smell_ it, _her Basira_-

Basira looks up, meets Daisy’s eye, and lets out a small, pained sound.

“I missed you,” Daisy says, the words tumbling out of her mouth after a month of near-total silence. “Basira. Oh, god, Basira, I’m sorry. I tried to come back- I’ve been trying to come back, for you. And I love you. I missed you so much.”

Basira lets out another tiny, choked off noise, and takes a couple of shaky breaths. Daisy just keeps staring, because Basira’s eyes are such a lovely brown, and she’d missed the freckle under here eyebrow, just there, and the way Basira places her hand firmly on the cot, wrapped around the plastic edging, her nails kept short and practical, and Daisy’s heart is bursting with it, the love she has for this woman.

“Basira,” she says again, and Basira takes a breath, sets her shoulders, stares her right in the eye.

“I made you a promise,” she says.

There’s a scar on Basira’s lip that wasn’t there before. _I did that,_ Daisy thinks, remembering the feeling of her teeth growing too long for her mouth, of Basira’s lips on hers for the last time, of the change.

“You did,” Daisy agrees, transfixed.

Basira’s grip tightens on the edge of the cot. “Do you want me to keep it,” she growls, not quite a question.

Daisy shakes her head _no,_ still staring at Basira’s lip. “I can choose now,” she says. “When to listen to the blood, and when to listen to the quiet.”

Basira lets out a sob, and then, quick as lightning, she’s _there,_ her arms wrapped around Daisy’s shoulders so tightly that she feels like she’s going to explode. She doesn’t smell of her old shampoo anymore, or of their old laundry detergent, but there’s something in the scent of her sweat and blood that is, more than anything else in the world, _home_. Daisy leans into the embrace, burying her face in Basira’s neck, careful not to press her nose into the bandages. They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, breathing and crying together, Basira’s hands running through Daisy’s hair again and again like a prayer.

Eventually, Basira pulls away just enough to undo the restraints around Daisy’s wrists, and then Daisy wraps her arms around Basira and twists her hands in her shirt, trembling. They stay like that for a while, too, and then Basira pulls away to undo the handcuffs on her ankles, and then Daisy leans forward and kisses her on the cheek, and then Basira pulls Daisy to her and presses their lips together, desperate, and Basira tastes like the last sweet thing on this ruined earth. Daisy kisses the tears from Basira’s cheeks, lets the salt burn her chapped lips, runs her hand over Basira’s chin until her fingers are numb, then curls into her and lets Basira hold her again.

She isn’t sure how much time passes before someone knocks on the door, hesitantly, and calls Basira’s name. Basira hums, then says “I’m alright,” and the person must decide that’s enough, because then they’re alone again. They lay together on the cot, Daisy’s head pillowed on Basira’s chest, her hand stroking Basira’s waist, and stay like that for another long while. 

“I love you,” Basira whispers, and then, later, “You saved my life.”

“’S’what partners are for,” Daisy mutters, her eyes drifting closed. “I love you, ‘Sira. Missed you every day.”

Basira presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, and she falls asleep to the lovely quiet.


End file.
